I think I’m beginning to get it. This thing we call “campus ministry” is amorphous, protean, perplexing, ephemeral, and many other five-dollar words. But at the end of my first quarter as a campus minister at the University of Cincinnati, I think I’m beginning to get it.
Like a lot of folk, I wrestle with whether I’m doing enough, doing it right, doing what God wants from me. On a college campus with upwards of 35,000 students, the challenge can seem insurmountable. Is campus ministry supposed to draw hundreds of students? Is it supposed to make a big splash on the campus? Is it supposed to result in lots of baptisms? Is it supposed to be quantifiable such that my funding will be renewed? Maybe, but all of this makes me tired. What gets me energized is on-the-fly conversations with students about theology, about the struggles they are facing, about how they got to where they are. What makes me happy is a student’s tentative exploration of the Christian story or her excitement for a service project. What shows me God’s action is the faithfulness of students in returning to us and in being willing to step out of their self-made boxes. These are not things that can be easily reported and they’re not things that happen every day. Success, as many folk in the campus ministry blogosphere have recently pointed out, is not what you think. Success, as Henri Nouwen points out in his book Lifesigns, is fruitfulness rather than productivity.
An example:
I have been spending time contacting students and professors over the quarter, taking them to lunch, inviting them to the campus house at the corner of Clifton and Martin Luther King, meeting them on campus and engaging in conversation. I’ve called them, emailed them, Facebooked them, Tweeted them, texted them. I’ve put up fliers. I’ve prayed. And slowly, I’ve developed a “clump” of students interested in what we’re doing, interested in pursuing some portion of the spiritual life.
The weekend before exams, I had one of those days which makes it all worth it, a fruitful day. A student came by to talk about her passion for an anti-suicide awareness campaign called To Write Love on Her Arms–we made concrete plans to engage the campus in conversation. After a conversation about the small group of homeless folk who have been making camp in the woods nearby, a couple students and I walked down and emptied their overflowing trash can. A professor dropped by to go over details for a DAAP art project at the campus house–we’d been conversing and dreaming for the entire quarter about what this collaboration might look like. In the evening, we celebrated the Advent season with a rollicking gospel worship service, fried-chicken dinner, and service project for the First Step Home with at least 30 people–more than we’ve ever had at a single event (besides orientation activities).
Each of these moments is the slow-growing fruit of a longer conversation. They are stories not results. They have developed out of relationship rather than expectation or schedule. They are success. I get it. For the moment.
...[T]he very existence of such powers argues a counterforce. We call powers of the first kind dark, though they may use a species of deadly light as Decuman did; and we call those of the second kind bright, though I think that they may at times employ darkness, as a good man nevertheless draws the curtains of his bed to sleep. Yet there is truth to the talk of darkness and light, because it shows plainly that one implies the other. The tale I read to little Severian said that the universe was but a long word of the Increate's. We, then, are the syllables of that word. But the speaking of any word is futile unless there are other words, words that are not spoken. If a beast has but one cry, the cry tells nothing; and even the wind has a multitude of voices, so that those who sit indoors may hear it and know if the weather is tumultuous or mild. The powers we call dark seem to me to be the words the Increate did not speak, if the Increate exists at all; and these words must be maintained in a quasi-existence, if the other word, the word spoken, is to be distinguished. What is not said can be important--but what is said is more important.
--The Sword of the Lictor, by Gene Wolfe, p 124-125.
I am afraid of the dark. There, I said it. I’ve been afraid of the dark since before I can remember, and I’ve never really shaken it. I used to panic when fumbling for a light switch, or run up a flight of stairs from a dark hallway to a light one, waving my arm behind me to beat away the monster that was chasing me. I still fight off my overactive imagination when entering a dark room, remembering all the scary movies and news clips I’ve seen.
When my dad was in seminary, we went to the Great Vigil very early every Easter Sunday. It was pitch black outside. We’d gather around in the cold morning air and they’d light a blazing fire to symbolize the light of Christ which pierces the darkness…but which to me only put up a thin, weak wall between us and the surrounding darkness.
It seems like that darkness is all around this time of year. It gets dark so early in non-Daylight-Savings-Time. Some of us experience Seasonal Affective Disorder, feeling sad and mopey and unmotivated for no discernible reason. Many of us remember loved ones who have died near the holidays and cannot contain our grief. Last week we wrote out our New Year’s resolutions and stuck them to the boards in the lobby and this week we step into that new year, into Advent, into a season of waiting, of uncertainty. Our new year begins in darkness, like that Easter Vigil. We light one little candle to help us find our way in the dark and… it doesn’t seem like it really helps. Where are the Maglights that will flood the room with light and with which we can smack down the monsters that wait for us?
You don’t believe in monsters any more? I think you do. They’re drunk drivers and communicable disease. They’re poverty and not being able to take care of our kids. They’re rejection and decline. For a lot of people, the decisions the ELCA Assembly made this summer regarding sexuality are monstrous. For others, the monster is our brothers and sisters leaving us because of those decisions. The conversations we have seem sometimes to lead into darkness where we can’t see the way. The monster you fear in the dark could be your own sinfulness—we’re all broken and so often we can see it clearly—hurtful words, disdainful actions, willful ignorance. Maybe the darkness your path enters is doubt—how true is this Christian story? Am I living it the right way?
The holiday cheer this Advent and Christmas can feel like a veneer. We convince ourselves it’s okay to spend more than we can afford or buy meaningless gifts, because it’s Christmas, right? We watch the news and hear about random shootings or piracy or starvation or abuse. We know what goes on out there and sometimes we’re the ones doing it. It doesn’t help to have an apocalypse for our gospel reading this New Year’s Day. Luke’s Jesus talks about confusion and distress and foreboding and fear. He says we can only pray to escape the things that are coming. And what are we supposed to do with that?
Some Christians would say we’re right to live in fear, that at any moment calamity could fall upon us, that God’s judgment is only the blink of an eye away, that a time of darkness and pain and war is coming…And I would say, if you think it’s not here now, you’re not paying attention.
It’s more than evil we fear, it’s uncertainty. Finding our way in the dark fills us with fear because we can’t see the way. Finding our way in the dark is hard because it’s dark. We don’t know which path to choose because we can’t see where they lead. This present darkness, as Paul wrote to the Ephesians, is terrifying. The dark is here now…
But you know what else is here now? The Kingdom of God is here now. The joy of resurrection and redemption and peace and belonging is here NOW. And again I say, if you think it’s not, you’re not paying attention.
Jesus says, “When these things begin to take place, stand up and raise your heads, because your redemption is drawing near.” Your redemption is drawing near. These apocalyptic events, the overwhelming moments in your lives, they are a sign that redemption is coming. They do not exist by themselves but inter-mingled with hope.
Those early Easter mornings years ago, we kids would all fall asleep once we were inside the chapel. The adults continued on with the readings from salvation history and at dawn, we awoke to the sunlight streaming in the tall windows. I remember I was overcome with joy and renewal and felt that something very good had pushed away the dark. Recently, spending an hour talking with a homeless woman in Chicago or playing with my 1-year-old daughter, I feel that divine hope renewed and the darkness pushed away again.
When have you felt that hope? When have you been delighted recently? That’s God lighting your path. When have you reached out to someone hurting? When has someone reached out to you when you needed it? That’s God lighting your path. We like to think our world is all darkness, but that’s too easy. It’s easy to complain, to focus on the misery. Seeing hope isn’t easy and it doesn’t negate the fear, but it does offer a way forward.
How do we find our way in the darkness? We reach out, fumble for the hand of the person next to us, hold on to someone else. We strike a match, light a candle, prepare ourselves with works of kindness. We open your eyes—and wait to see the coming of the Christ child. In him, the light is intermingled with the darkness and the darkness will not overcome it.
Your redemption is drawing near, the light is coming. Jesus keeps speaking—he speaks of a fig tree which, after the winter, after the Seasonal Affective Disorder, the tree puts out new leaves. Anyone who’s paying attention knows that flowers and fruit will follow the new leaves. Anyone who’s paying attention knows that birth follows the labor pains. Anyone who’s paying attention knows that apocalypse is not the end, but a signal of a new beginning. It is all part of the process—relapse is part of recovery.
This Advent, this new year, is about becoming. Becoming a Christian is about leaning towards something—God, Kingdom, love made manifest—it’s about yearning and process. It is not about arrival but finding our way.
God is coming, and God is here.
Alleluia, God is coming, Alleluia, God is here!
When my dad was in seminary, we went to the Great Vigil very early every Easter Sunday. It was pitch black outside. We’d gather around in the cold morning air and they’d light a blazing fire to symbolize the light of Christ which pierces the darkness…but which to me only put up a thin, weak wall between us and the surrounding darkness.
It seems like that darkness is all around this time of year. It gets dark so early in non-Daylight-Savings-Time. Some of us experience Seasonal Affective Disorder, feeling sad and mopey and unmotivated for no discernible reason. Many of us remember loved ones who have died near the holidays and cannot contain our grief. Last week we wrote out our New Year’s resolutions and stuck them to the boards in the lobby and this week we step into that new year, into Advent, into a season of waiting, of uncertainty. Our new year begins in darkness, like that Easter Vigil. We light one little candle to help us find our way in the dark and… it doesn’t seem like it really helps. Where are the Maglights that will flood the room with light and with which we can smack down the monsters that wait for us?
You don’t believe in monsters any more? I think you do. They’re drunk drivers and communicable disease. They’re poverty and not being able to take care of our kids. They’re rejection and decline. For a lot of people, the decisions the ELCA Assembly made this summer regarding sexuality are monstrous. For others, the monster is our brothers and sisters leaving us because of those decisions. The conversations we have seem sometimes to lead into darkness where we can’t see the way. The monster you fear in the dark could be your own sinfulness—we’re all broken and so often we can see it clearly—hurtful words, disdainful actions, willful ignorance. Maybe the darkness your path enters is doubt—how true is this Christian story? Am I living it the right way?
The holiday cheer this Advent and Christmas can feel like a veneer. We convince ourselves it’s okay to spend more than we can afford or buy meaningless gifts, because it’s Christmas, right? We watch the news and hear about random shootings or piracy or starvation or abuse. We know what goes on out there and sometimes we’re the ones doing it. It doesn’t help to have an apocalypse for our gospel reading this New Year’s Day. Luke’s Jesus talks about confusion and distress and foreboding and fear. He says we can only pray to escape the things that are coming. And what are we supposed to do with that?
Some Christians would say we’re right to live in fear, that at any moment calamity could fall upon us, that God’s judgment is only the blink of an eye away, that a time of darkness and pain and war is coming…And I would say, if you think it’s not here now, you’re not paying attention.
It’s more than evil we fear, it’s uncertainty. Finding our way in the dark fills us with fear because we can’t see the way. Finding our way in the dark is hard because it’s dark. We don’t know which path to choose because we can’t see where they lead. This present darkness, as Paul wrote to the Ephesians, is terrifying. The dark is here now…
But you know what else is here now? The Kingdom of God is here now. The joy of resurrection and redemption and peace and belonging is here NOW. And again I say, if you think it’s not, you’re not paying attention.
Jesus says, “When these things begin to take place, stand up and raise your heads, because your redemption is drawing near.” Your redemption is drawing near. These apocalyptic events, the overwhelming moments in your lives, they are a sign that redemption is coming. They do not exist by themselves but inter-mingled with hope.
Those early Easter mornings years ago, we kids would all fall asleep once we were inside the chapel. The adults continued on with the readings from salvation history and at dawn, we awoke to the sunlight streaming in the tall windows. I remember I was overcome with joy and renewal and felt that something very good had pushed away the dark. Recently, spending an hour talking with a homeless woman in Chicago or playing with my 1-year-old daughter, I feel that divine hope renewed and the darkness pushed away again.
When have you felt that hope? When have you been delighted recently? That’s God lighting your path. When have you reached out to someone hurting? When has someone reached out to you when you needed it? That’s God lighting your path. We like to think our world is all darkness, but that’s too easy. It’s easy to complain, to focus on the misery. Seeing hope isn’t easy and it doesn’t negate the fear, but it does offer a way forward.
How do we find our way in the darkness? We reach out, fumble for the hand of the person next to us, hold on to someone else. We strike a match, light a candle, prepare ourselves with works of kindness. We open your eyes—and wait to see the coming of the Christ child. In him, the light is intermingled with the darkness and the darkness will not overcome it.
Your redemption is drawing near, the light is coming. Jesus keeps speaking—he speaks of a fig tree which, after the winter, after the Seasonal Affective Disorder, the tree puts out new leaves. Anyone who’s paying attention knows that flowers and fruit will follow the new leaves. Anyone who’s paying attention knows that birth follows the labor pains. Anyone who’s paying attention knows that apocalypse is not the end, but a signal of a new beginning. It is all part of the process—relapse is part of recovery.
This Advent, this new year, is about becoming. Becoming a Christian is about leaning towards something—God, Kingdom, love made manifest—it’s about yearning and process. It is not about arrival but finding our way.
God is coming, and God is here.
Alleluia, God is coming, Alleluia, God is here!
MadPriest's "Thought of the Day":
I have read, or have listened to, words from the Bible almost everyday of my life and I believe I can now say, without any doubt, that there are two great evils that a person can commit: hurting people and hypocrisy. On these two sins hang all that is evil and all who promote evil.
Driving back from the grocery store yesterday, I thought to myself how wonderful being a mom is. I get a primal satisfaction from planning Abby's lunches and playing games with her. I thought to myself how happy I'd be with several little ones running around and me with only their laundry, health, education, and spirituality to worry about. I thought to myself that it's this pesky job that's in the way, that keeps me from being completely fulfilled.
Last week, returning home from a long but good day at the UC campus, I thought to myself how wonderful being a campus minister is. I get a primal satisfaction from brainstorming new events and conversing intently about folks' lives. I thought to myself how happy I'd be focused entirely on the campus and my husband, with only their very special needs and concerns to worry about. I thought to myself that it's this pesky motherhood that's in the way, that keeps me from being completely fulfilled.
When I have a migraine, I think I could be okay if only either the nausea or headache would go away. But when I have only one of the two, it's no better. Seems like there's always something standing in the way of happiness. Seems like we put something in the way of happiness--that our happiness/joy/fulfillment is conditional. We can only be happy if certain conditions--established and changed in a moment--are present.
"If it weren't for this one thing," we think to ourselves, "I could deal. I could be happy. It's just that one thing."
But that one thing becomes an idol, something that stands between us and God and which we mistake for a god. Workload or homework, a partner's behavioral tics, perceived persecution--all become idols of negative space. That is, they take up space along the edges of things, filling our vision to overflowing with what-has-to-be-done rather than what-is-being-done. We give them power and they take over. We let these things keep us from giving of ourselves in whatever context we find ourselves in. I once heard it said that Jesus didn't go out of his way to help people--that he was busy enough helping the ones who crossed his path. It is where we are--busy-ness, multiple pleas for our attention, sickness and health--that we are called to celebrate and where we will be fulfilled. There will always be something else to deal with. But there is also always the space and people where we are to celebrate and encourage.
At the Navigate Conference in Florence, KY this week, DG Hollums asked these questions at the end of his talk:
Does this expect them to come to us? Is there sending involved?
How are relationships forming outside our walls?
Does this promote the kingdom or ourselves/churches?
Are people’s lives being transformed through relationships? Is the community you live in being transformed?Can this become a movement that you no longer control? Is the spirit in control?
I'm going to use these for prayer foci, bible study questions, house church conversation, vestry/council challenge.
Does this expect them to come to us? Is there sending involved?
How are relationships forming outside our walls?
Does this promote the kingdom or ourselves/churches?
Are people’s lives being transformed through relationships? Is the community you live in being transformed?Can this become a movement that you no longer control? Is the spirit in control?
I'm going to use these for prayer foci, bible study questions, house church conversation, vestry/council challenge.